


Drowning Dry

by CrankWindPencil



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: I'm mean, Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrankWindPencil/pseuds/CrankWindPencil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he wakes up, things aren't the same as they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning Dry

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after the Time War.

He wakes up.

Immediately, he knows something is horribly wrong.

He is on the TARDIS floor, and he's alive. He's not supposed to be alive. Scrambling slightly, desperate to find something stable to hold on to, he sits up, rising to his knees and raising his arms to place them on top of the TARDIS console. His mind is racing, digging through his recent memories, trying to figure out what's happened. It's like trying to see through murky waters. He knows what's happened, but it's just unclear enough, just below the surface of his conciousness, and he can't name it.

His gaze falls on his hand and it occurs to him that he's regenerated, through from what?

He remembers.

It floods him. The memories, _fearbloodhateguiltpainwardeathcryingscreamingwimperingsilence-_ they flood him and he's drowning in them and he screams, no thoughts, no words, no anything. Just _noise_.

He takes an uneven breath, with every intention to keep screaming, but somewhere in between breathing and continuing, a sob racks his body and the onslaught of memories, temporarily subdued by the noise he'd been making, continue.

He remembers the button, the War, watching Gallifrey burn. He remembers wanting to die, expecting to die, waiting for it.

He wasn't supposed to regenerate. He wasn't supposed to survive. He was supposed to die with the rest of the Time Lords, to be relieved of his memories, of his life, he was supposed to be punished (rewarded?) for what he had done with a fiery death.

He sobs again, a broken, choking noise, and, Rassilon, there's a silence in his head in place of the other Time Lords, and it hurts, the silence hurts, and every moment it feels like a fresh would being inflicted in him again and again and again and-

The TARDIS makes a noise, one he hadn't been expecting, and a loud one at that. He flinches at the noise, feeling his muscles ripple underneath his now too baggy clothes. This body is strong and he can feel it. For a brief moment, he wonders why that is. He hasn't used it hardly at all, but he can feel it, and this is definitely the most muscular body he's had yet. He thinks that maybe his physical strength is supposed to make up for his emotional strength.

He thinks that perhaps this body needs him to be mentally as he is physically. Cold, hard, unfeeling.

He thinks that this isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Raw and angry and so, so afraid, he stands up, placing his hands on top of the TARDIS console in an attempt to keep him steady on his feet. He starts around the TARDIS controls, flipping a switch, adjusting a dial with this new body and this new hurt.

A moment ago he was ignorant, confused. Now, he's just desperate.

He needs to be somewhere. Anywhere, as long as it's not in the last remaining piece of Gallifreyan history. Somewhere, anywhere, anything is welcome as a distraction, a distraction from the increasingly self-destructive thoughts that are presenting themselves to him, a distraction from the impossibly loud silence in his head.

He pulls a last lever and takes a step back, gaze settling on the center column. The new center column in the new TARDIS interior. He'll have to get used to that.

Assuming he allows himself to survive the next few days, that is.

The TARDIS jerks a bit as it shifts into the Time Vortex, and from there, Rassilon knows where he'll end up.

His throat tightens. No, not Rassilon. Because he, the merciful Doctor, the kind Doctor, had slaughtered Rassilon and seven billion other souls. He, the wonderful Doctor, had slain Rassilon, the man he so despised, with no distinction between the High Lord of Gallifrey and his own friends and family.

Oh, God, his family.

His family is dead, and for whatever reason, it's just now hitting him for the first time, and it's real, everything is so real, too real, he didn't want this, he couldn't prevent it, he wasn't good enough, he can't he can't _hecan'thecan'the_ -

And like a puppet with all of its strings cut, he sinks to the floor.


End file.
